


His Face Shines in the Gloom of My Parents’ House

by PaulaMcG



Series: Grimmauld Place [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Full Moon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Werewolf Remus Lupin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: When Sirius must move back to his parents’ house, Remus comes to live with him and shows him that there is a need for memories.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Grimmauld Place [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740949
Kudos: 27





	His Face Shines in the Gloom of My Parents’ House

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Morkeleb of Fiction Alley (Jaz of Livejournal), for whom I wrote this when participating in the HMS Wolfstar One-Shot Exchange in May 2005. I’m still grateful to my excellent beta Manraviel of Fiction Alley.  
> Sirius and Remus won't help me make any money.

When he moves into the house with me, he brings all his possessions in that briefcase, and there’s nothing he’d need to shrink with a charm. He’s carried almost everything around easily for years. The mattress and the blanket belong to his landlady, and only the darned sheet is his. A few books and the photo album, a kettle and some dishes and cutlery. The old cloak – while the rest of his clothes we’re wearing. And some seeds he collected from the flowers in the window box.

When this door has closed behind me, the heat and the light of June are gone. I stride across the murky hall telling myself there’s nobody to hurt me here any longer. 

The screaming pierces my head. I don’t need to consider whether to cover my ears or to run. Turning into the dog is the only thing that helps, and I must do it quickly before my strength fails. But the shrill sound hurts my canine ears even more. I bound up the stairs trying to keep my tail from between my legs, and there’s nowhere to hide. 

He finds me curled up in a corner of my old room. He’s out of breath, but his hand soon steadies, caressing my back with long, firm strokes. His words don’t make any sense to me, until I lift my head and meet the reassuring gaze in those eyes, which glint like dark amber in the scarce light filtering through the curtained windows. He’s saying, “We just have to remember to make no sound when we pass the hall.”

I’ll remember that. I don’t want explanations. But a moment later when we’re choosing rooms for ourselves and Buckbeak, he grins at me mischievously. “It’s good to know that her portrait can’t help screaming – that all three of us irritate her to no end just by our existence, not to mention our presence here.”

I must look a bit puzzled. He punches me on the side, continuing, “Want to do something that’ll anger her further? Any ideas? What could we do that she’d hate?” 

His pale face shines in the gloom of my parents’ house, and soon I find myself laughing with him, as we mess around among my ancient and precious heirlooms. I don’t hesitate to invade my mother’s bedroom first – and to clean it up a bit to make it decent enough for a noble creature like a Hippogriff. 

He doesn’t stop me from destroying her extravagant silk robes, and her silver hairbrushes, which are still charmed to start brushing my hair when I touch them. After suggesting vaguely that something could be sold or given to people in need, he joins me in hexing them all into crap. It’s fun to play with this new wand. He’s finally bought one for me after Dumbledore made the goblins give him some gold from my vault. But when Kreacher tries to rescue something and I want to transfigure the bloody elf into a dustbin, the gentle, firm hands grab my shoulders and push me to another room, distracting me… which is not hard to do. 

As a man I’m still startled by his touch, and I look around for something else to hex. He helps me oust all biting and poisonous vermin from this room, too. Then he claims to be too tired to continue cleaning, and spreading his sheet over the bed, he asks me if we can share it. This time I don’t mind. I wish I could have destroyed the walls as well, and being closed in here without the light of his face is not exactly tempting.

We end up cleaning no other bedrooms for ourselves even later. The next task is in the kitchen. In the morning he suggests that he go out to buy bread and perhaps something else, so we can cook. I don’t want to stay by myself, and for several hours he seems to agree that eating is not necessary. We banish dark spirits from possessed quirrells and set these funny little rodents free in the backyard. We scourgify the pantry until their leavings make me feel sick, and that’s when I notice that he’s exhausted again. I must force on him the money for the groceries, because he won’t ask for it. 

While he’s away shopping, I turn into the dog and chase rats upstairs for Buckbeak to catch. I eat one myself, too.

He’s learnt some Muggle cooking in one of the restaurants where he’s worked, although he mainly washes the dishes. But neither of us is a expert in using a wand at this old-fashioned magical stove, and we have fun experimenting. We end up crunching burnt toast and eating not-so-fried eggs with spoons, and he says it’s the best breakfast he’s had since… 

I’ve stopped listening again. Wandering away from the table, I find my way to the cellar. I try transfiguring decade-old pickle and jam into oil paint, which he could use for his art. 

“Better just use a vanishing spell,” he says. “There might be some tiny dark creatures living in it.” 

“Not in this stuff.” I rescue some bottles from him. “You know what’s in here. The madness!” 

There’s only a small secretive smile on his lips when he turns away to examine the door. “You don’t mind emptying this room with me by the full moon, do you – for us?”

But others come, members of the Order. They come to stare at me and to listen, so I‘m supposed to say something aloud. I escape upstairs and lean against Buckbeak in the gloom, trying to imagine we are free and alone in the cave.

I catch myself treasuring images of the scorching sun. 

Captured under it with nowhere to look for shade. Infinite freedom of the unknown lands. Revealed and valued only after I had left for the north and was tangled in the maze of the past and of new duties. Driven by the cold to be fed by those women, practising my memory. Forced to act sane to be what James’s son needed. 

The ridiculous, almost unfurnished room with the whole south wall as windows. Unbearably cold on that winter night when I realised I was unable to stay with him. Unbearably hot when I’d been ordered to come back and stay. A new prison for endless days and worse at night when he returned and tried to find something in me. Now those few days have been added to the pile of my new memories. And they are precious. As I now recall it, the desert of the worn floorboards has turned into a vast space for me to move around. Even his presence there was a rare treat and not too menacing.

At this place it’s so much more demanding. He stays near me for long days, rummaging with me in these rooms. The rooms are crowded with relics of the first among the worst I haven’t forgotten. I wonder if the chill in this house is physical or from my mother’s spirit. And if I dare lift a heavy curtain, I find a windowpane covered with dust and dirt and the breath of evil will. 

I shiver. For once I’m happy he is there, so I can ask, “Is this cold real?”

When did he become the reckless one? He throws himself on a mouldy couch and laughs with relief. “Yes, finally. The heat’s been killing me.”

I don’t even try to find anything else to say, so he pours a load of words over me. “You must know I’m so happy to be here with you. I shouldn’t complain about work, when I haven’t found any too often. But I admit I still get tired too easily. It’s a relief I can do something for the Order, especially when it’s arranging the headquarters with you. And when I can get my meals here.”

So we cook together and eat as much as we can, and he gets stronger more quickly than I do. His face is more luminous night by night. And he talks more and more. “I wish I could remember… You know, perhaps we can understand each other better now. But more than ever I wish I could have kept my mind completely during those nights we enjoyed together under the full moon. Perhaps you’ll reach something of the memories when you see me as a wolf. And next month perhaps we can Apparate somewhere to a deserted place. We’d better stay in the cellar this time, although I’m sure…” 

He makes me look forward to it, even if I’m a bit worried that the wolf will be too strong for this dog to control. On the evening of the full moon his pain startles me. I turn into the dog and he embraces me, gasping, “It’s all right. There’s nothing more you should do as a man. Just let me… hold you. It’s better now.”

I can feel how he changes. I don’t think he ever allowed me to witness it so closely. That would not have been good enough a memory to be taken away from me. I don’t want to look, and I continue to tremble when his convulsions are over – until he licks my snout. He is as beautiful as… 

Yes, I can remember him. But now his eyes have remained amber, and he’s completely at ease. He nibbles at my ears playfully. He’s incredible. We wrestle and chase each other around that cellar room, and it turns into a forest in my mind. Yes, I remember how it used to be and I can’t wait to tell him in turn. We cuddle together, and even sleep for a while until we are both woken by his convulsions. Now he’s lying in my arms and I carry him upstairs. 

“You don’t have to… I have no wounds,” he protests, but I know that the transformation alone consumes his strength. Besides… there are so many scars I’m sure I’ve never seen before. For a whole day I’m stronger than him. I feed him, and I lay my body down beside his and start finding the way to know him again.

On the following day he’s gone. He stays away for several days. Others come, but I don’t dare to mention him. They talk about missions and risks.

When he comes back there’s nothing I can say. I clutch my bottle and use my other hand to offer him a drink, too. He refuses it, but takes my hand and leads me to the backyard. 

I collapse to sit on the steps with my bottle. Is it really still summer? The heat is almost suffocating in this small yard. The walls block both the sun and the wind, but high above I can see a slice of bright blue sky. I haven’t cared to come here, although I heard people say that the charms prevent us from being seen from those other buildings. I’m not surprised he never cared to come here, either. He’s been happy in the chill of the house, after all.

But now when he sits down beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders only for a moment, he doesn’t look at me even though I lift the bottle to my lips. He surveys the closed space in front of us and stands up abruptly to go and pace the length of the paved yard.

Finally he crouches at the other end of the yard, next to a small patch of pale grass. When he takes a tiny bag from the pocket of his robes and calls my name as if really expecting me to join him eagerly… I decide to do so.

I even speak first. “Are you going to… These are the seeds you brought from…”

He stands up, takes my free hand again and holds it under the bag. I can smell the seeds now. Anise. 

“Do you think it can grow here?” I slur.

“You can make it grow.”

I begin to suspect he actually means me. Closing my hand to a fist, I take a swig of Firewhiskey and decide to say nothing more.

“You know, I need anise seeds for the soothing ointment I use when charming wounds to heal,” he starts explaining in a cheerful, irritating voice. “Thanks to you, I don’t think I’ll ever need it after the full moon again, but…”

“You could have been wounded on the mission?” I blurt out. “And you won’t even tell me about it!”

“Not just me… anybody… And there could be a time when someone needs healing and can’t be taken to St Mungo’s because of some secrecy… and when I’m not here to do it… But you’ll be here, and the first thing is to prepare the ointment and you need…”

“You want to turn me into a bloody gardener!” 

The bottle is shattered on the steps. So I rush in to look for another one, and to get away from his cheerful voice and silly smile. In the pantry I notice I’m still clasping the seeds. I lean against the wall and slowly slide down to sit on the floor. Sitting there, drinking, I indulge in savouring the memory: the scents of soap and garlic and finally anise. When he had dressed and fed me and I allowed him to touch my wounded paws.

The house has been full of colour and noise. Redheads and arguments. Finally I got to talk to Harry. To tell him what I wanted him to know… not all, but quite a deal. But he had to go, too. For a while I thought he wished he could have stayed. But why would he want to stay with me? I should be grateful that Buckbeak accepts my company. 

The Hippogriff has fallen asleep, and I’ve managed to drag myself up. I wander through the deserted house. Now I’ve ended up at the door to the backyard. Staring at the veil of rain, clutching a package of Muggle cigarettes for a change. Found them in the Weasley twins’ room. An unopened package, so there should be no prank charms on these fags. 

An idea flashes through my brilliant mind. I should experiment with transforming these into some better stuff. In the same way I’ve mixed my own magical drinks. But today I feel uninspired to invent anything, when there’s no one to admire or to scold me. I’ve been alone for too long, it seems. I content myself with plain Firewhiskey. And with tobacco, which I never actually liked. It’s nice to breathe the smoke only in fresh air – when camping or something that he told me about… 

I find the wand in the pocket of my robes and light a cigarette. Is this what a decent wizard is supposed to use his wand for? This, and uncorking bottles and a bit of cleaning? I stride out to the rain.

The stub is burning in the shelter of my hand. I’m still sitting on the stairs, drenched through, so not even the rain continues to make any difference any longer. Last year and the year before there was at least a reason to seek shelter, try my best to keep somehow warm. Now I can always easily light a fire which will banish the chill of this house to dwell only inside my mind. All I need to do is drag myself a few steps back… so it can wait. 

In my mind there’s too much space for the few recent memories which claim to be significant. I’m not sure I want to believe them. 

An arm around my shoulders, only for a moment. And it fills the desert of my mind for unbearable stretches of time.

The pouring rain blurs my vision, and I struggle to see something to distract me. No quirrells, of course not. They must have found a way out soon after we set them free. The water splashes against the paving and the spreading pools. A faint smell of soil and decaying leaves draws my attention to the patch of grass, surprisingly green, surrounded by the colourless gloom. No flowers.

At first I hardly paid attention to his window box when trying to catch a breeze in that furnace, his crummy rented room. The image in my memory blinds me, but gradually the light becomes gentle, even sweet pink, and I catch myself waiting. He arrives and asks me if I’ve watered his plants, and says it’s best to do it in the evening in any case. They suffer from the heat, and I suggest that he use a sheltering spell to protect them. Before we move out, there are flowers producing seeds. 

I could have helped his plants survive the lack of sunlight, too. 

“It’s all right,” he says, stirring the cauldron. “The Order pays for the ingredients, and I bought the anise together with scales of Irish Ironshield and… This looks so much better now that you cut and mixed the ingredients. I wonder why I ever bothered to study Potions and Healing, although it was my mother’s first expertise and I needed to learn to heal myself. Potions was clearly not my strong subject at school, so that Snape actually had a reason to make fun of me…”

“Snivellus! Who does he think he is! It’s his fault you’re not a professor at Hogwarts. And you can teach even Potions better than he does. You can teach me to concoct the potion he used to brew for you…”

“You’re right: when we combine our strengths… But you know, I don’t want that potion. It dulls my mind for the whole week and just makes the transformation pain worse, and I’ve almost managed to stop from wounding myself with the help of an animal. And when you are with me I really don’t need it at all… You know it’s full moon tomorrow night and I’m actually looking forward to it.”

My rage evaporates into the steamy air of the kitchen. There’s not even a scent of it left, although I struggle to cling to it. The hatred ties me to my past and to Harry’s future, and seems to make my mind complete. But now I’m drowning in the same moment again: surrounded by our concern for each other.

“Tell me,” he whispers.

I’m leaning against the wall and he’s too close to me.

“I’m still scared of the pain. But you can tell me how it was and how it will be. Just as I’ve told you how defying your family made you a happy member of another family, and how we who are left will rise from the ruins again when fighting in a new war. Just as you’re the one who’s teaching me to believe in a revolution.” 

He grabs my shoulders, and at the moment when he tilts his head back slightly, I decide to speak. “So we’ll Apparate out tomorrow afternoon when you’re still able to… I’ll wait with you and it’ll be just like…” 

Letting one of his arms fall, he turns to lean against the wall beside me, but he doesn’t lower his gaze when he replies, “Can you believe I actually remember last time – in the cellar? I seem to have learnt something about the control of my mind on my own during all those years. And now that I’ve got you back, I feel I was close to… embracing the wolf’s mind as mine. I can remember the concrete floor under my paws, burying my snout in the warm black fur. The surprise in the grey eyes… You know, the strangest thing was that it wasn’t a loss that something human was missing in my mind. There was no time. No worry about the pain of transforming back – about losing my mate, the dog. But without your telling me there’s no way I could really know how the nights used to be when we were young… pups.”

We’re huddled against a boulder of stone, which blocks the strengthening wind. I breathe in the harsh, tempting scents of the wilderness. I’m free as air, and my limbs are restless with an urge to wander away: to transform and leap up the mountains – or to stride my way like this, as a man. But I’m determined not to move. 

The mist is shrouding me in this valley. He’s trembling against me. With his shaggy grey head under my collarbone, his face turned up, but his eyes closed. The sun must have reached the ridges, and the night is falling hard upon us. This time I’m not going to escape. I must be grateful he allows me to do this. He’s got undressed in front of me, and I’ve taken him inside my cloak – this fine thick one he bought for me, as if I’d need it more than once a month. The healing here is for both of us. He’ll be surrounded by my touch until the last moment. But I know he needs my voice, too – my words.

I have to tell him. I have to agree to remember. All of it.

“Moony, listen. I won’t transform before you’re the wolf. You’re as beautiful as you used to be. Just more silver in your fur I think. I’ll see now that we’re outside, if the mist is lifted enough for the moon to shine on us.

He’s staring at me now. The only stable point in him is this dark amber of his eyes.

“The wolf used to enjoy the moonlight. His eyes were not as warm as yours now, or as the wolf’s a month ago. But there was joy in them even when… Prongs and… Wormtail… They played with you, too. You know, I’m not good at describing things. And I wouldn’t like to… Yes, Wormtail, he was easily left behind, but I wasn’t sure he always only pretended he’d look for his own adventures. Still, when we stopped on a hill to howl, he bumped on your hind legs. You bent to lick him and let him climb onto your back and share our howling feast. Prongs would sense the approaching dawn first. His restlessness would make Wormtail climb onto his back, instead, for a ride back to the Shack. You and I would run side by side, and I’d snap at your neck. Partly on purpose, so you’d have at least a few slight bruises and Pomfrey wouldn’t be too surprised when you’d arrive at the Hospital Wing. You’d be tired enough in any case…”

Now he becomes rigid every couple of minutes, and I wonder how well he can understand my words. He’s totally focused on them, in any case. Our eyes are locked, and I’m afraid there isn’t much less pain in mine. 

I mustn’t continue to the end of that memory. How I stayed behind with him in the Shack, against his wish, to see him transform back. He must not think about that now. The dog will remember it all through the night, but the wolf won’t. I wish… 

Now I must fill my eyes with hope for him, as if it could happen: as if we could stay free under the moon for eternity, without time. Without concern for each other. It must be what we deserve. We’ve paid the price so many times; we’ve been paying it for such a long time. 

“Listen, Moony. It’ll be over in a moment… We’ve paid the price. There’s only hope left.”


End file.
